She envies him.

Riven stands alone on the hill, staring out over the expanse that is Noxus. Her eyes always scan for patrols and soldiers; not for the threat, but to avoid the unnecessary violence. With no path, no conviction, she dares not kill without a reason. This is not like the League; the enemies out here do not respawn. Their blood coats the ground, and they are gone for good. She is lost.

And she envies him. She has seen him in battle and out, the steely warrior of promise. Though the helmet never seems to leave his head, nor the shield and javelin his hands, Pantheon is iconic for Rakkan and its people. His presence gives off authority and demands respect, and he is worshipped for his feats. The man scoffs at the prestige and glory of the League, and has voiced many times his distain of it for replacing true warfare. He goes forward with certainty and conviction, the same strength she used to have. And even though she does not share his ideals, she does envy his certainty, and wish it for herself.

She remembered the Rakkan from before the League was created; their fierce warriors would fight with an almost unmatched skill. Some wielded weapons of extreme power and wore enchanted armor, while others charged into battle naked and tore men apart with their bare hands. Their only weakness, she remembered, was their need to fight against the odds; a group of ten warriors would engage against one hundred Noxians, simply because they wanted a true challenge. Had they planned their battles and attacked en mass, she wondered if even Tryndamere's barbarian horde would remain unfazed by their zeal.

And Pantheon stands above them all. He is regarded as a hero and a god among the common people (common meaning soldiers who could only fight against five at a time, rather than ten). He returns to his home a victor and a beacon.

Riven shakes her head; as an exile, she has no home to return to. Noxus is not so foolish to believe her dead anymore, as joining the League erased all chances of anonymity. She is hunted and scorned by her own people, cast out and forgotten in her self-inflicted punishment. She is forced to hide, keeping away from any who may recognize her. So far, she has not been found (barring Talon, who visited her once, promising to sow misinformation in return for staying in the boundaries of Noxus and proving another distraction for Swain). She is someone with no direction, no conviction, holding a broken sword and hiding from the very people she once fought for. She is lost.

And so, she envies him.

He envies her.

He stands tall and proud on the mountain of Rakkan, inspiring all who look at him. He is an unstoppable force, a truly gifted warrior, and to the weak, an undisputed god of war. There is nothing and no one who can match him. He is champion.

And still, he envies her. He can see her, wandering around the forests of Noxus. She hauls her broken sword and heavy heart everywhere she goes. And somehow, Pantheon cannot help feeling jealous of her freedom; jealous of her ability to do as she wishes, with no restrictions, no expectations, and nobody to let down. And sometimes, when he allows his mind to wander, he wishes he were in her position.

He knows her story; he has studied all the champions in the League, doing his best to get matched up against only the strongest. He learned of her feats as a soldier, her skill and conquests as a leader in the Noxian military force. He also learned of her final battle, of the chemical warfare the madman Singed introduced, and her subsequent disappearance. He knows that she has lost her direction, lost her conviction in the Noxian way. But he can't shake the feeling that maybe that life would be better; at the very least, it has the potential to be.

She is an exile, yes. She is hunted by her own people, true. But she has her freedom. She can sleep where she likes, and nobody cares. She can disappear for days, weeks on end, and no one will ask questions. She can drop her sword and pick up a brush, painting canvas with colors more beautiful than the mountains of Valoran. She can craft an instrument, drawing from it such beautiful sounds that the birds around her are silenced in awe. She can pick up a pen, and with eloquent words, captivate an entire audience in poetry that reaches into the depths of their soul. Yet she cannot, will not, do any of these things. Her potential is limitless, and she has been handed the blank slate to do with as she pleases. And instead of making a new and beautiful future, she wanders.

A baker. It is his dream, his fantasy, if you will. Why, he can make loaves of bread so soft, they practically melt in your mouth. The rolls from his oven are the sweetest in all of Valoran, and don't get him started on his cakes. His skill on the battlefield is matched by his skill by the stove, the heat rolling over his body as his care and precision is embodied in the golden-brown pastries.

Even now, he can't help but smirk. Just a silly fantasy; none of his brethren know about his wishes, nor will he tell them. It would be a disgrace to his people, dishonor to his family and deal a huge blow to the moral of his men. They were fighters, not bakers; he would be laughed at until they could no longer stand. None in the league knew of his secret (except, of course, for Talon, but Pantheon was fairly certain that the man knew the secrets of all who resided within the walls; he was equally certain the man didn't care and, in turn, wouldn't say anything). He loves the fight, revels in the thrill of battle, and still part of him wishes to settle down, marry, and live a simple life. A sad, pathetic fantasy, he knows, that will never become reality.

He is respected, worshipped, and rewarded. Women throw themselves at his feet, men bow and hope to be touched by his shadow, and children dress up and imitate his feats on the battle field. He is a celebrity, a champion, loved and respected by his people. He has everything.

And still, he envies her.